


A Clone's Heartache

by Fanfic_Parkour_Master



Series: Clone Abed's Hurting And So Am I [2]
Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Canon Autistic Character, Episode: s05e07 Bondage and Beta Male Sexuality, M/M, Meltdown, Not Beta Read, Self-Harm, We Die Like Men, abed has a meltdown, definitely more explicit than i was planning, emotions and kickpuncher, he really misses troy, it's quite explicit?, it's sad hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:34:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28127709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanfic_Parkour_Master/pseuds/Fanfic_Parkour_Master
Summary: Tonight was the the night in which he was supposed to go watch Kickpuncher...So why the fuck was he sitting in the dark, in Troy’s-old-but-now-his room, crying, probably ruining the inside of his painstakingly made face piece with the annoyingly overwhelming emotions of the Real Abed.And, oh, he was crying again.
Relationships: Troy Barnes/Abed Nadir
Series: Clone Abed's Hurting And So Am I [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2060625
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45





	A Clone's Heartache

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I would like to preface this with saying, I have little to no experience with meltdowns and am writing this as a neurotypical person! That being said, please, PLEASE, correct me if I got any aspects wrong and/or they come off as disrespectful or harmful. Abed's meltdown in this work is entirely based off of my own experiences.
> 
> Thank you for reading :)

It wasn’t until three in the morning, when Abed had finally gone home after reviewing his screenplay with Hickey all night, picking apart his carefully chosen words, though apparently not carefully enough, that he realised that he had been Real Abed all night.

  
From the moment he had finished the KickPuncher armour and slipped it on, till now, the real him had been hastily, almost sloppily resurrected, the way a character would be on a show that reached a deadend and needed a slapdash fix to half-heartedly revive the narrative.

The thought made his teeth ache, the skin around his eyes tightening.

He wasn’t supposed to be _Real_ Abed. He was supposed to be a clone who was untouched by the overwhelming feelings that had plagued his former self, as little as he expressed it in a way that most truly understood.

But it was true, wasn’t it. He was real and he hurt because of it.

If anything, he had _needed_ to be Clone Abed, on tonight of all nights.

Tonight, the night in which he was supposed to go watch Kickpuncher, a movie that had been so essential to his and Troy’s relationship, dressed in a way that connected them in a way that felt almost too intimate. A night that was to be a monument to their world shifting friendship (At least, it had shifted _his_ world). It would be both reminiscent, and also a way of letting go; he would be seeing the newest Kickpuncher alone, or, more importantly, _without Troy_.

So why the fuck was he sitting in the dark, in Troy’s-old-but-now-his room, crying, probably ruining the inside of his painstakingly made face piece with the annoyingly overwhelming emotions of the _Real_ Abed.

And, oh, he was crying again.

Frustration bubbled up in his chest and he slammed the heels of his clenched fists into his forehead and then the sides of his head. Once. Then twice. He wasn’t supposed to be feeling like this. Becoming a clone was supposed to _fix this_.

He kept hitting his head, the metal of his chestplate and arm braces clanging in a disruptive way that made him want to dig his fingers into his eyes and feel the blood drip down his face in place of his tears.

He knew that to get the noise to stop, he’d have to stop hitting himself, and that the noise would probably wake Annie soon, the two walls and living room between them not enough to hide the sounds of his distress, but he. Just. Couldn’t. Stop.

When his brain quieted down and his tears stopped burning paths down his cheeks, he slowly withdrew his hands from his head after giving his hair a quick tug for good measure. He breathed deeply and rocked a little.

His mouth tasted like cotton, his eyes were glazed over and his head pounded.

He fell back onto his bed and rolled over.

The hard outer armour he was still wearing dug into his skin. His face burnt and his eyes stung. Blood rushed to his head and made it throb in tandem with his heartbeat.

He fell asleep thinking about holding hands in a darkened cinema, explosions and punches with the power of kicks projected on the screen in front of him.


End file.
